“To hell with this.” Kowalski swung the Shuriken from his shoulder to his hands. He stalked forward, pointing its muzzle at the mass of roots. “I have my own way of knocking.”

  Gray lunged after him. “Don’t—”

  Before Kowalski could take another two steps, a root cracked out and whacked the weapon from his grip. The impact bent the steel and sent the rifle flying into the spiked barrier behind them.

  “Hey!” Kowalski yelped out.

  But it wasn’t being disarmed that had so alarmed him. Another root had whipped out and latched to the man’s wrist. Before he could move, a third shot between his legs and wrapped around his upper thigh.

  Kowalski was yanked forward toward the churning mass of spikes. He lifted an arm to protect his face. His legs stumbled and fought against that pull, but this was one battle he could not win.

  Gray ran to help him.

  “No!” Tyende shouted. “Do not interfere!”

  Gray respected the old man, but he could not abandon his partner. Still, he paused a fraction too long. Kowalski was lifted off his feet and jerked forward. The big man shouted as he hit the coil of roots—only to have them part and pull him inside. His huge form vanished into the twisting mass.

  Gray skidded to a stop.

  Too late . . .

  He expected screams of agony, but only a stream of frustrated curses echoed out. Gray backed a few steps and lifted to his toes. Kowalski reappeared on the other side. Roots still shrouded him, but he was alive.

  Kowalski struggled to free himself.

  Tyende drew alongside Gray. “He has been chosen. Found worthy.”

  He stared at Tyende in dismay. “Kowalski?”

  Tyende frowned at him. “Does he not have a good heart?”

  Gray stammered, unsure how to answer that.

  “Then is he perhaps ill?” Tyende offered.

  The question so surprised Gray that it took him a breath to answer. As tough and hardheaded as Kowalski was, it was easy to forget that he was fighting malignant myeloma, another battle he might not win.

  “Y . . . yes,” Gray admitted. “He has cancer.”

  “Ah.” Tyende stared back at the barrier of black roots behind them, at the barbed tunnel that they had all crawled through. “She must have sensed it.”

  Gray stiffened with the realization. He pictured those spines and spikes, cutting and poking. He had worried back then about them inflicting poison—when, in fact, the thorns must have been sampling them, drawing blood purposefully, to better understand who approached.

  He again recalled Benjie’s assertion about the highly attuned nature of plants. He also remembered Tyende’s words: You’ve already been tested.

  Again, he meant that literally.

  “She does Her best to heal,” Tyende explained. “Though She is a hard Mother, merciless in Her anger, She is also kind in many ways.”

  Gray stepped forward. No matter the reason, they had to take advantage of the situation. He cupped his mouth to yell. “Kowalski! Don’t fight. Let the tree do what it needs to do. Just make sure you fill your canteen with some of that water!”

  Kowalski continued to struggle, while yelling back, “Why am I always the goddamn guinea pig?”

  His body was hauled inexorably toward the tree, passed from root to root. His boots skidded and kicked. It did no good. A new set of roots snaked out from inside the hollow trunk and snagged him, running tendrils across his face, through his clothes.

  He hollered, wriggling, clearly outraged, “Poke up there again, and I’ll burn you to the ground!”

  Despite his protests, he got dragged across the threshold. He passed through the crack and into the heart of the tree. The roots pulled him to the water’s edge—then gently drew him into the glowing pool.

  As Gray watched, he considered Tyende’s inquiry a moment ago.

  Does he not have a good heart?

  Gray remembered when Kowalski took another swim, through a radioactive pond, risking all to save others. It was why he got sick, how he acquired bone marrow cancer. Had the mother tree somehow sensed this sacrifice, too? Was it more than just his cancer? Was that why he had truly been chosen?

  Across the way, Kowalski was pulled fully underwater, as if partaking of some vernal baptism. Gray prayed that this ritual might help—but a larger concern weighed.

  Even if the cure could be secured, they still needed to get it out of here—and quickly. Recognizing that urgency, Gray didn’t intend to stand idle. He shifted his pack and pulled out his sat-phone, ready to break radio silence one last time.

  I must reach Painter.

  And hopefully no one else.

  26

  April 25, 9:00 A.M. CAT

  Belka Island, Democratic Republic of the Congo

  This definitely wasn’t the plan.

  Tucker knelt at the base of the porch steps. He had his fingers folded atop his head, gripping tightly, his heart pounding. The muzzle of a rifle stabbed his back. His Desert Eagle had been stripped from him by the guard behind him and shoved into the soldier’s belt.

  Frank fared even worse. He shared the mud next to Tucker, on his knees, but sporting a split lip and a swollen eye. Another soldier held a handgun to the back of Frank’s head. His friend, at least, had put up a decent fight.

  Tucker’s sternum still throbbed. Draper had proven his skill, catching Tucker square in the chest. The Kevlar body armor was the only reason he wasn’t already dead.

  Not that such a fate isn’t far off.

  Draper lorded over his victory from atop the porch of the guesthouse. He had a radio at his lips, coordinating the final evacuation. All the while, he glared down at them, refusing to lower his guard.

  The door opened behind him. Two figures strode out: a Congolese doctor in a lab coat and a taller man, early sixties, wearing a crisp linen suit and black tie, his dark-blond hair oiled and neatly combed.

  Tucker guessed the first had to be the head of the compound’s research team. The sneer on Frank’s face confirmed this. The second was clearly Nolan De Coster. Frank had described him, but the man’s identification was evident enough from the deference that the doctor and the soldier showed him.

  De Coster had clearly come out to gloat, perhaps summoned by Draper on the radio. The CEO’s gaze settled on Tucker. “So, this is the fellow who caused us so much trouble. But no matter, we’ll soon find out how he came to be here.”

  Tucker lifted a hand slowly from the top of his head, as if to ask a question. Instead, he raised a middle finger toward the man.

  De Coster rolled his eyes and turned to Draper, who leaned in closer.

  Good enough . . .

  With the captain momentarily distracted, Tucker slapped his raised hand down to his hip pocket. He might be unarmed, but that didn’t mean he had come unprepared. His palm struck the button on the tiny transceiver in his pocket.

  The small grenade he had planted blasted behind him.

  Earlier, when canvassing Draper’s gunship, Tucker had lodged the last of his frag charges near the propellant tank of a Hellfire rocket’s engine.

  Always good to have a backup plan.

  He had no hope that such a small grenade would ignite the rocket’s warhead, but the effect was dramatic enough. Gas shot out of the propellant tank, screaming like a banshee.

  Tucker, however, was already in motion when the grenade exploded. He burst to his feet, catching his guard by surprise. He yanked the rifle under his arm and got a finger on the trigger. He strafed the porch. His aim was wild, striking the side of the building, the roof above the porch. Still, it was enough to force Draper to shelter the two new arrivals behind him—mainly De Coster.

  The captain returned fire but had no better aim. He concentrated instead on getting his charges through the door and into the guesthouse.

  Draper didn’t linger—especially as Frank had gained a weapon and added to the barrage. His own guard lay sprawled at his feet, groaning and dazed, clearly coldcocked.

  Under the combined assault, Draper ducked away and slammed the door.

  Tucker let go of his captured rifle and twisted hard. He snatched his Desert Eagle from the soldier’s belt, lifted the gun under the man’s chin, and fired. The guard’s helmet kept his skull in place, not that it helped. The body slumped to the ground.

  Another gunshot caught Tucker in his armored shoulder and spun him around. The firefight had drawn the attention of the forces around the helicopters. He dove to the right of the steps. Frank took shelter on the left.

  Tucker reached to the bushes next to him.

  Back to Plan A.

  He lifted his stolen rocket launcher.

  9:04 A.M.

  Monk lay on his side in broken glass. Blood poured into his right eye, blinding him on that side. His head rang from being pistol whipped.

  Ekon loomed over him.

  A muffled blast a moment ago had drawn the lieutenant’s attention toward the door. The four soldiers—the reinforcements who Ekon had called in earlier—had also looked in that direction. One of them had propped open the door for a better view. A flurry of gunfire had echoed to them.

  Monk hadn’t known the source of the commotion, only that he needed to take advantage of it. He leaped at Ekon, determined to grab his weapon. But the lieutenant was no slouch—and damned quick. He struck Monk hard with the butt of his pistol. The world had gone dark for several seconds.

  Now as his vision cleared—at least in the one eye—Monk rolled to his seat. Ekon crossed closer, kicking Charlotte to the side. He raised his pistol, preparing to club Monk again.

  Monk lifted an arm against the attack, eyeing the pistol. He wondered if he’d had both hands, if he could’ve secured that weapon. He really needed to talk to DARPA about innovating a new prosthesis, one that didn’t require him blowing it up all the time.

  Of course, I need to live first.

  Ekon growled down at him, swinging his weapon high.

  Monk winced, knowing what was coming.

  He was wrong.

  A massive blast shook the Quonset hut, rattling the metal walls and windows. Ekon backed up a step, never letting his focus drift from Monk.

  Monk smiled.

  Big mistake, you misogynistic bastard.

  9:05 A.M.

  Charlotte lunged from the floor.

  The blast had turned the metal hut into an echo chamber. She counted on the deafening reverberations to cover her effort. That, and the lieutenant’s clear lack of concern that she posed any threat. Like all women, she was accustomed to slights, oversights, and the lack of presumed value.

  She took advantage of it now.

  She leaped at Ekon’s blind side. In her hand, she gripped a broken flask by its neck. She swung hard and stabbed its jagged end into his neck, aiming for the carotid. Before she could rip it free, he smashed an elbow into her side. A rib snapped with a lance of agony. She flew far and crashed hard, sliding through more glass.

  Monk tried to follow up on her attack, but Ekon stumbled away, falling to a seat on one of the beds. He left the broken flask in place, smart enough to know not to yank it out. He shifted his pistol toward Monk and fired. He missed, but it forced Monk to dive aside.

  Ekon recentered his aim, intent not to miss a second time.

  Unfortunately, the lieutenant had failed to learn his lesson about women. The bed he had fallen on was not empty. Fingers reached up from behind him. They grabbed the impaled flask and slashed its sharp edge across his throat.

  The pistol clattered to the floor. Ekon used both hands to try to stop the flood of blood. He coughed and choked as his life spurted from both carotids. He finally tipped sideways off the bed, revealing his slayer.

  Disanka crawled back to where her baby lay nestled on a pillow.

  Charlotte recognized a fundamental truth.

  Never threaten a mother’s child.

  Monk had already retrieved Ekon’s fallen pistol, catching it on its first bounce. He fired at the door, forcing the other soldiers to a huddle in the anteroom. One lifted a rifle and strafed the room blindly.

  “Everyone down!” Monk hollered. He waved a teenaged boy to the floor, then shouldered the cot up on its side. “Find cover!”

  Charlotte rushed low to Disanka and helped her off the bed, along with her baby. Once they were down, she followed Monk’s example, tipping the cot over as a shield. But the thin mattress and scant frame offered little protection.

  Rounds punched through, proving this fact.

  She flattened lower with Disanka.

  With the armed soldiers guarding the only exit, they were trapped. A fresh barrage of gunfire erupted. Charlotte tried her best to shelter Disanka and her boy under her.

  Then sharp screams rose—coming from the doorway.

  Perplexed, she rolled enough to peek out.

  A soldier came tumbling into view, firing wildly at the doorway. She spotted another pair of legs, unmoving and still, sticking out from the anteroom. Return fire pelted the retreating soldier, blasting through the open door. Rounds ricocheted off the soldier’s armor and helmet.

  Then a shadow leaped high and struck the soldier in the neck.

  Kane . . .

  The dog brought the man down and savaged his throat until his target lay still.

  The firefight ended. All was quiet, except for the ringing in her ears. She held her breath. Another figure dashed into the room, sticking below the anteroom window.

  “It’s all clear!” Monk shouted to their rescuer and stood up.

  Charlotte did the same, woozy, but determined. She expected Tucker to show himself, but as the shooter cleared the anteroom and straightened, she recognized her mistake.

  Ndaye crossed over and patted Kane’s side. “Good boy.”

  Where had the eco-guard come from?

  She didn’t know, but she couldn’t be more grateful. She turned and offered Disanka a hand up. Instead, Disanka rose on her own, her strength likely fueled by adrenaline. But how long would that last? Charlotte stared around at the other patients. Six were still alive. She had to accept that as a win.

  Monk noted her attention. “We need to get everyone into the woods. We can’t get trapped in here again.”

  She didn’t argue. Though the gun battle had ended in the ward, weapons fire still echoed from the square. If that war should shift in this direction, they needed to be gone.

  The three of them did their best to get the patients moving. The worst afflicted had to be carried by Monk and Ndaye. The others managed only a little better, struggling with debilitation and weakness.

  “Wait!” Charlotte called out.

  She ran to the far end of the hut, to the ransacked clinical area. She grabbed what Ngoy had left behind, what that vainglorious bastard had considered useless, as it wasn’t his own work. While being held captive, she had noted it abandoned on the floor, half-buried in debris.

  She fished out Frank’s laptop and headed back.

  “Good thinking,” Monk said. He grabbed a pack off of a dead soldier, emptied it one-handed, and secured the laptop inside. He hooked the pack over her shoulder. “Keep it safe.”

  She nodded.

  They gathered everyone and headed to the door. Once outside the hut, Monk guided them away from the fighting toward the less traveled woods.

  Before leaving, Charlotte had also recovered one of the rifles. She kept next to Disanka. The young mother staggered alongside her, clutching her child. The woman’s condition was clearly worsening. All Charlotte could do was steady Disanka with a free hand.

  They finally reached the woods and slipped into the deeper shadows.

  “Keep going,” Monk warned.

  Charlotte knew they had no other choice. She clutched hard to the stolen rifle. It was the only way she knew she still held it. Her hands had gone entirely numb. She couldn’t feel her feet. Her head pounded with a pain that narrowed her vision. The tension and terror exacerbated her symptoms.

  Still, she forged on, goaded by the firefight behind her.

  9:09 A.M.

  Wreathed in oily smoke, Frank crouched on the porch with Tucker. The compound’s main square choked with a thicker pall. The wreck of the two helicopters smoldered at its heart. Bodies lay strewn all around. Many were burned, either by the initial RPG strike or by the explosion of two fuel tanks.

  Still, many combatants had survived, too many. Soldiers fired at them through the flames and smoke. Rounds peppered the planked sides of the guesthouse, tore through wooden posts, and pinged off the steel bistro table that Tucker had knocked on its side. They sheltered behind it and fired at any shadow that approached too close.

  “Ready?” Tucker asked, his upper face hidden behind his goggles. They had recovered their helmets, too.

  Frank gripped the tiny silver egg in his palm and nodded.

  The ferocity of the firefight had ebbed over the last minute. A majority of the remaining soldiers must have decided caution was the better part of valor and retreated out of harm’s way, waiting to see how matters resolved. But a stubborn contingent remained, firing sporadically at the porch.

  It was a stalemate that Tucker and Frank couldn’t wait out. They were running low on ammunition, and they had to worry about Draper slipping away, too. They couldn’t let him escape with that decryption key.

  That’s if he hasn’t already.

  “Find out if he’s in there,” Tucker said. “And keep him there. I’ll hold the fort and join you when I can.”

  Frank nodded.

  Tucker lifted and strafed with the rifle. “Go.”

  Under the cover of that barrage, Frank ran low for the door. He edged it open and tossed the smoke bomb inside. He heard its muffled pop, waited two heartbeats, then shouldered across the threshold and dove low.